This pitcher belonged to my grandma. She used it to put maple syrup in on Sundays to accompany her amazing sourdough pancakes. She always nagged me if I asked for a second helping. In fact, she always nagged me about everything! My grandma was a bitch, but I loved her. (it feels almost like sacrilege to admit this) Up until the age of 10 or so, I loved her so much that I would cry every night for a week after I left. When I would go home after a visit, I would keep a shirt from my trip so I could sniff it and smell her hugs on it. I could smell the white sand beaches that we roamed looking for shells with her best friend Lucille, and the boat ride we took out into the bay “to put the birds to bed,” as grandpa called it. As I entered adolescence, my grandma changed. At a time when I needed acceptance most, she started putting down every aspect of me: my hairstyle was wrong, the clothes I wore were inappropriate, my grades were never good enough, I wasn’t thin enough. Stunned by her radical changes, I began to loathe her, and myself. This dynamic lasted for many years, coming to a head when I was 19 years old at my Uncle Woody’s funeral. I borrowed clothes from all my roommates so I would have a wide array of classy duds to choose from, but she still put me down. I had tried so hard to please her, and I finally realized that I never could. It was the end of my innocence. We had a huge argument in the hotel room. I screamed into her face everything that I had bottled up for all those years. I wish I could say it changed things between us…but a year later when I found out about my mother’s suicide, she said that I had been “a terrible 2 year old,” as if it was somehow my fault that my mother did what she did. My grandma was relentlessly critical with my mother too… The last time I saw my grandma, she was in a nursing home and the Alzheimer’s had removed her ability to speak. She looked at me with such remorse in her eyes, and then she just moaned and moaned for a long time. Somehow I just knew that this was her way of asking my forgiveness for all of her transgressions. A few years ago I accidentally tapped the orange pitcher against the sink and it shattered so thoroughly that it was pretty much a lost cause. I couldn’t believe how deeply it affected me. I cried deeply for all the complicated tangles between my grandma, my mother and me. I picked up all the pieces and I glued them back together the best I could. It no longer holds water, but it serves as a reminder of love. Love is not perfect or painless; but t is still so very precious. Our hearts can be broken by those we love best, and yet they miraculously heal and we continue to love and be loved.

I still cringe every time I think of my father. I feel so guilty now that he's in a nursing home, but I don't feel any love for him. I force myself to see him about once a week. It's all I can handle. He destroyed me the first 19 years of my life, and even though I now understand he was mistreated by his father , too, I haven't been able to forgive him for the inadequacy I've felt my entire life. I'm so glad your heart has been able to heal. Hopefully mine will still.

I truly love the colors in your photo. Pink is suppose to be a color that gives us peace. It's seems very appropriate for the vase you glued back the pieces together of to hold your memories and allow you to heal and love.

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Hi! I'm Marguerite Bryant, but most folks just call me "M." This blog will be a place to share my musings and inspirational ideas.You can email me at: artlovin1@suddenlink.net.